December 12th, 2009

Hudson Bay, 9:36am.  The moon was pricisely full at 8:46… Exactly fifty minutes of ever so subtle luminous decline.  The café is pretty full this morning, and as I look around at us all, buried in our laptops and New York Timeses, I am present to how privileged we all are.  It is so safe and warm here, and other than our exposure to the news, which is almost like reading an especially riveting work of fiction, we are all so sheltered and safe.  We have no real, tangible awareness of all the starvation, suffering, abuse, etc. that is occurring all over the world right now.  I didn’t really have a higher purpose for bringing that up… but it just flashed thru my awareness.  This luxury of safety and comfort, and the oblivion that almost inevitably accompanies this insulated experience of life.  I feel like I should drive at something, now that I’ve brought it up, but there is no soap box in sight for me to stand on.

I am listening to Pandora radio, the Jai Uttal station, and a prayer of Saint Francis’s, sung by Sarah McLaughlin just came on, and it squoze tears up and out of me, like toothpaste from one of Mykael’s tubes.  It turns out that he is very anal about squeezing from the very bottom, so that there are no bulges in the tube.   It’s sure fucking hard for me to honor that one.  I told him that I would squeeze his tubes from the bottom IF he would put his shoes in a specific, out of the way location when he takes them off in my bedroom (instead of just kicking them off in the middle of the floor…) Honestly, I was hoping that he would fight me.  I was hoping that he would in the moment of my vicious ultimatum, realize how unreasonable and generally threatening his request was.  I wished we could cling to our respective “not so good fights” in the spirit of mutual respect and understanding, retaining the pleasurable right to mutter under our breath, and lovingly curse the other.  NO SUCH LUCK.  The very next time he entered my bedroom, he held up his shoes, wearing an inquisitive look.  Where would you like me to put these?  My shoulders slumped.  “In the closet, I guess…”  What are the implications of this?   Maybe I will just continue to use separate toothpaste…  Or oblige in his neurotic request… or hope that he slacks in his organizational duties, so that I have a fat, juicy excuse to wrap my naughty, wrathful fingers around the plump belly of his toothpaste tube and squeeze it’s pastey brains all over my chaotic bristles.  God willing.

But I started all that toothpaste talk because I wanted to express that hearing Saint F’s prayer was heavily moving me.  Is that here OR there?   It felt pertinent because I am in such a teenage fight with God these days.  Most of the time I am locked in my bedroom, rebellious, a fountain of eye rolling, gum smacking attitude.  And I know it’s bullshit… but I need to pass thru this phase, because it is no longer authentic to be so reverent, pious, devout to some flimsy concept of “LOVE and LIGHT”…  I am a founding the church of the Love and Light Renunciates.  Not because there’s anything WRONG with love and light… but I’m renouncing the TRYING involved.  Relating with the Holy One should NOT be effortful, if you ask me (in this moment…)  Sure, I still believe that self-discipline is essential to a fruitful human life… but not this EXHAUSTING strain of effort, that indirectly implies that god is Other than what is most true, most authentic, most pure, ALREADY.  So the fuck what if I want to chew blasted GUM in yoga class… does that make me less able to commune with Jesus our Lord and Savior’s Olde Man???  No, in fact, if I derive an experience of openness from the flavors and textures of GUM in my mouth, than chewing can actually BE an act of communion.

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